


When All Alone

by VivWiley



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M, PWP, Patient X, Red and Black, maybe a hint of character development
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 19:56:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VivWiley/pseuds/VivWiley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Krycek and Mulder find an unexpected moment after the events at the air base.  Fits into the same universe as "Grievances Foregone."</p>
            </blockquote>





	When All Alone

**Author's Note:**

> This one is for Te. Just because. 
> 
> Thanks to D for last minute beta.

He came after me.

I hadn't expected it. I'd hoped for it, of course, in some far-off feral corner of my brain, but just fucking knew he wouldn't. So I ruthlessly squashed that hope and kept moving.

I always keep moving.

I don't know how he found me. It's a question that came to me only much later. When I had time to think again.

"Why'd you do it?"

The growl in my ear was my only warning before I was summarily slammed up against the brick wall in the alley where I'd been waiting. _Waiting? For what? Had I known, even then?_

A muffled "whuff" was the only reply I could immediately make, but fortunately he didn't seem to be waiting for anything more coherent.

His weight pressed against me, hot and demanding. Trapped between the cold damp brick and living wall of Mulder, I felt myself instinctively yielding, trying to shape myself into all the cracks and faults.

He reached roughly to grab my arm, in preparation to turn me to face him, I imagine, and as he encountered the plastic and metal that hung there, he suddenly stiffened.

"Jesus." Hot incredulous anger, but I couldn't tell who it was directed at.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Mulder?" I felt an answering anger welling up in me. How dare he be angry?

He finished his earlier motion and whipped me around to face him, my head bouncing painfully against the wall. I was dazed by what I found in his eyes, for all that I had no name for it.

"I think I should be asking that question." He always did miss the point on the things that mattered. "Where do you get off just dropping in on me and handing me information that I'm supposed to blindly trust?"

"I doubt you ever blindly trust anyone...except maybe that partner of yours."

His hands pinned my shoulders against the wall, and it amused me to be held still.

"What do you want?"

What do any of us want? Security? A chance to die in a warm place?

"Figure it out for yourself, Agent," the word a taunt in my mouth. "It's what you're paid for, right? Anyway, you have free will. You could have made the choice to use the information or not. It was really of no major consequence to me." I do bravado well.

It almost worked. A wash of anger drowned his eyes and I could feel his hands starting to ease up, preparation to him walking away. But then he stepped closer. Heavier.

"Yeah--I have free will." The words slower now, almost measured. Dangerous. "And so do you. Which simply begs the question, Krycek: why did you do it? What do _you_ want?"

"I thought you could use the information. Thought you might be the right person to act on it. Maybe I was wrong." Sheer bloody-minded derision that time. I knew exactly what had happened. He'd used the information, of course, and come fucking close to actually getting somewhere this time. I hadn't counted on the Others showing up quite so soon, but these are the risks we all take.

I had heard, through the channels that still remain open to me in unexpected places, that he'd gotten mind-wiped. Again. I wondered how much of that night had been erased. How much he really remembered...although it would seem that he did remember where the information had come from.

A long empty pause. I could hear the gears clicking in that complicated mind of his. Too complicated, really. It tended to get to the wrong answers because he over-analyzed when he should have simply accepted. Simply acted. It was a lesson he still needed to learn. 

Then the gears shifted abruptly.

"Why did you--" The different tone. Another question. Tension beginning to unwind and reform.

He was asking about the kiss. Something I wasn't really ready to explain even to myself. Acting on impulse and sheer gut instinct had got me through a lot, but also still occasionally got me in serious trouble.

I was considering a half-dozen flip responses, when without his even realizing it, I think, Mulder's hands began to wander across my shoulders, and then down. He was jolted back to the cold reality of our circumstance when he encountered the straps and then the unyielding solidity of my other arm. In a flash, the anger and confusion were back, and he was lost in some Mulder tangle of thoughts--gaze riveted at what was missing and what had replaced it.

"What the hell happened?" His voice was soft, almost talking to himself. I think for a moment he forgot that there was actually flesh and bone beneath his other hand. A sudden inhalation. "Tunguska....the peasants."

He finally looked up to meet my eyes--I could read nothing coherent in his. "They did that to you." 

"Yeah." It still stings. Still aches. But he was not to know that. The years have given me a certain nonchalance on command.

I would, however, kill him if he apologized. I was already reaching for my gun.

He didn't.

Something that looked almost like pity moved across his face, then I watched him ruthlessly suppress it. It caught me by surprise. He isn't usually so aware of others. At least not outwardly.

"Fuck."

"Yeah." Not really much else to say. I've gotten used to the asymmetrical reality that is my life. Doesn't mean I accept it, but I've become used to dwelling in it.

A grim silence while Mulder attempted to retrack whatever his train of thought had been. If in fact it had ever really had a destination. It was cold and I began to grow restive. As pleasant as it is to pushed up against a cold wall with a hot Mulder on the other side of me, I did have places to go. Didn't I?

Then one of those mercurial shifts. Hands no longer drifting -- moving harder now, sure, exploring, trying to claim. His eyes nearly unreadable in the indistinct light of the street lamps refracting in the alley, and the almost-blinded light of the stars. 

I let myself be molded by those hands. To soften just slightly, to give in to that insistent flickering wire in the back of my mind that demanded that pleasure be taken wherever and whenever offered. Let myself tune into the frequency that vibrated through Mulder's hands to the core of me that had never forgotten.

Too good. Too dangerous. An addiction waiting to happen. 

There had been only a handful of times, but each of them was burned into my brain. Each encounter an image seared onto glass with jagged edges--beautiful to look at, but oh so dangerous to handle.

His mouth, lowering to mine, just missing mine, instead grazing along my jaw - a slight nip, an almost-kiss, and then his voice in my ear, blurring and dark, "Alex." And I was lost.

I reached for him then, and brought that too-perfect mouth to mine. Hard, dark, slightly bitter. No tenderness. Just need, and a slight plaintiveness that always caught me unaware. An endless time of feeding on each other's craving and need.

Our bodies arching into each other, mindless hunger amid a firestorm of arousal. Losing all sense of time and place. I have always known how to live inside a perfect minute.

A flash of light from a passing car cut through the alley and one of us regained some measure of sense. Or maybe it was just the preservation habits of a lifetime.

Pulling away. More a question of simply stilling my movements, freezing back into Alex Krycek, assassin and rogue agent, blanking out what else I had been just moments previously.

"What do you want, Mulder?" My tone as flat as I could make it. Only the slightest edge to it. Let him take the dare.

Indrawn breath and he nearly walked away again. Nearly. But he was just as lost as I was, and he stayed, moving in closer still, eliminating the last hope for sanity.

"I should think that would be obvious." Surprisingly wry tone. 

Push, and thrust, and I was nearly upright, albeit nearly laminated to the wall behind me. "There are other places."

I thought, for a moment, that he was going to argue with me, but he simply shrugged, the movement sending an odd thrill down my spine, and backed away just enough to let me slip by.

One of my "safe" (or unsafe, depending on my mood and my inclination to be honest) houses was a mere block away; we managed, for that block, to look like nothing more than a couple of yuppies out for an evening stroll. If you didn't look at us too closely. If you didn't notice the not-quite concealed weapons in our belts, and the way our eyes searched the shadows.

I think Mulder was going to make some smart-ass comment about the relative clean comfort of the apartment, but I had him pinned against the wall, plundering his mouth before he could draw breath to utter the first syllable.

Harsh exchange of pressure and heat, gradually easing to something that reminded me of what I used to call pleasure. Hard, long lines beneath my fingers, and I could only remember the words "more," and "now," and unbelievably, he could only remember, "yes."

Clothes shed with no words or thought, and then he was helping me lift away my t-shirt, and I waited, gut clenched, for judgment to color his eyes at his first look at the straps and buckles and lifeless plastic....but there was nothing but an eerily calm acceptance, and his clever fingers reaching for the buckles.

A pause. And he met my gaze with a level care that seemed the most dangerous thing I'd seen that night. "On or off?" Care underlaid with a simmering lust that was even now escaping its vessel.

I could do no more than jerk my head, and the fingers resumed their confident movements, and with a final tug and smooth slide, he carefully laid the prosthesis on the floor.

A momentary shift in the rhythm that pulsed through the small, anonymous space, and I wanted to slap away the almost tender look that crossed his face, the gentle caress of his hand across my left shoulder, but then it sparked away, and he growled deep in his chest and dove in to suckle the juncture of my neck and collarbone. 

Sensation pooling and then rippling out, threatening to render me boneless. Awash in a pleasure that was sharp and perfect, and then more perfect as he moved lower.

His hair was soft beneath my hand, his muscles smooth and sinuous. There were quiet whimpers and moans reverberating through the confined space that held us, and it no longer mattered who was making them.

He still tasted of salt, and citrus, and some spice that I could never name, but whose scent I had followed down more than one street. He had a new scar, barely healed--the skin twitched under my mouth as I moved across it.

And then we were maneuvering to the bed, falling into it, the creak and groan of the springs drowned out by our harsh breathing, our gasps. There is never enough oxygen around Mulder.

He found the condoms and lube as though he had been the one to place them in the nightstand, and I rolled beneath him, hot and ready and as close as I will come to surrender. He was surprised by the implicit invitation, I could see him beginning to think again--I didn't want that.

I reached for his cock--stroking its inflamed length, teasing, snaring his attention back to the here and now. 

A hard look, and he rolled on the condom, and slicked his fingers, and I fell back and on the sheets, waiting to be claimed, impaled.

Sudden, firm invasion, and yes, and yes, and more, and he moved over me, and then in me, and I had to close my eyes, and try to keep from flying completely apart as he thrust and thrust and thrust. Tight and hot and deep and hard, and I could feel something ancient and sharp unwinding in my core--spiraling out and out. Then a hand closed around my cock, slippery, warm grasp, stroking in time to the pace that Mulder kept.

And oh.

And oh.

And, "Oh God." Spasms wracking me, and him a moment after, final ragged thrusts, and then a quiet groan. Still wrapped in my self-imposed darkness, I felt his sweat-slick body collapse on mine. Heard our breathing slowing, felt him finally pull away. 

A movement on the bed, and I thought maybe he was sitting up looking at me. 

Hand on my shoulder.

"Alex..." I thought he would demand that I open my eyes--give evidence of my submission, my abandon. But he didn't say anything else, and I let myself simply exist in the sensations that ebbed and receded, until the darkness was real.

I awoke alone.

And moved on, always on.


End file.
